Down the Up Slopes
by
Libby Simon
She was sleek and elegant with a refined air about her. You could tell she was of excellent French vintage like a fine wine that only improves with age. Although compact and petite, she was seductive in her plush burgundy velour, like royalty - and I fell in love!
SHE was a French Simca. Her age, I determined was some time in this century. Although I was almost thirty myself, this was my first car, late in life by today’s standards. The asking price was $300.00. The fact that she had a gear shift mechanism was not a problem as I had learned to drive on a standard. I gladly paid the money, thrilled and delighted with my new possession.
They say love is blind, and I could certainly vouch for that, but not until I got to know her better. At first, we went everywhere together. I took her to the supermarket, the bank, the doctor, and on peaceful drives through the park. What good times we had! She was willing to go anywhere I wanted.
But one day when I took her to work, her true colours began to show. Maybe she was reflecting my own subconscious resistance, but whenever she had to put up any extra effort, like driving up an incline, she balked. She would only go on the horizontal or down slopes.
To understand my dilemma, you need to know I had three possible routes to get to work and two of them involved bridges. The third was through an underpass. What I discovered to my dismay was that she could glide her way down the slope but climbing up was another story. My classy lady barely made it up, no matter how much gas I gave her. Since going over the two bridges was obviously not an option, my only route to and from work was through that underpass. So I learned to plan ahead. I timed the car to make the green light just before the underpass, then picked up enough speed and momentum to carry her up the other side. This worked out pretty well, but I had nagging nightmares that one day she was not going to make it and mid-way I would slip back down into the traffic behind me.
Well, my worst fears happened! One day, we went shopping and started up a parkade ramp (a short, but steep incline). I found myself half-way up and frantically pumping the gas pedal as cars were bumper to bumper behind me. But to no avail. She only kept slipping back down, forcing all the cars behind me to back into street traffic. This detonated an explosive wave of horn honking ann I knew this relationship was over. Embarrassed and humiliated, my French Simca and I were through.
As I think back, I wonder why I never took the car to a mechanic. I can only surmise that I probably never would have had the money to fix her. I did learn later that a new clutch would likely have perked her right up.
Sad as I was to let her go, I sold her for $300.00 to someone who fell in love with her as I had. But he was the right partner for her. He was a car mechanic.